
The Long Ago 




HEN said he unto me. 
Go thy way, 
Weigh me the 

weight of the fire, 
Or measure me the 

blast of the wind, 
Or call me again 
the day that is past. 

II Esdras IV: 5 



The Long Ago 



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CIA445923 



ytC -4 1916 



1 


The Garden 


2 


The River 


3 


Christmas 


4 


Butter, Eggs, Ducks, Geese 


5 


The Sugar Barrels 


6 


Jimmy, the Lamplighter 


7 


Flies 


8 


The Autumn Leaves 


9 


Getting in the Wood 


10 


The Rain 


11 


Grandmother 


12 


When Day is Done 



Published by the Author 
Copyright 1916 by 
J W Wright 

246 East Colorado Street 
Pasadena California 





HE day is done, and yet we linger here 
J: i at the window of the private office, 
i^BSv alone, in the early evening. 

Street sounds come surging up to us — 
' the hoarse Voice of the City — a 
confused blurr of noise — clanging 
trolley-cars, rumbling wagons, and 
familiar cries — all the varied 
commotion of the home-going hour 
when the city's buildings are pouring 
forth their human tide of laborers 
into the clogged arteries. 
We lean against the window-frame, 
looking across and beyond the myriad 
roofs, and listening. The world- 
weariness has touched our temples with 
gray, and the heaviness of the day's 
concerns and tumult presses in, presses 
in ... . presses in ... . 
Yet as we look into the gentle 
twilight, the throbbing street below 
slowly changes to a winding country 
road .... the tall buildings 
fade in the sunset glow until they 
become only huge elm-trees 
overtopping a dusty lane .... 
the trolley-bells are softened so that 




they are but the distant tinkle of the 
homeward herd on the hills .... 
and you and I in matchless freedom 
are once more trudging the Old Dear 
Road side by side, answering the call 
of the wondrous Voice of Boyhood 
sounding through the years. 









The 
Garden 




The 

G ar d en 

It was the spirit of the garden that 
crept into my boy-heart and left its 
fragrance, to endure through the years. 
What the garden stood for — what it ex- 
pressed — left a mysterious but certain 
impress. Grandmother's touch hallowed 
it and made it a thing apart, and the rare 
soul of her seemed to be reflected in the 
Lilies of the Valley that bloomed sweetly 
year by year in the shady plot under her 
favorite window in the sitting-room. Be- 
cause the garden was her special province, 
it expressed her own sturdy, kindly 
nature. Little wonder, then, that we 
cherished it; that I loved to roam idly 
there feeling the enfoldment of that same 
protection and loving-kindness which 
drew me to the shelter of her gingham- 
aproned lap when the griefs of Boyhood 
pressed too hard upon me; and that we 
walked in it so contentedly in the cool of 
the evening, after the Four O'clocks had 
folded their purple petals for the night. 

Grandmother's garden, like all real 
gardens, wasn't just flowers and fra- 
grance. 



There was a brick walk leading from 
the front gate to the sitting-room en- 
trance — red brick, all moss-grown, and 
with the tiny weeds and grasses pushing 
up between the bricks. In the garden 
proper the paths were of earth, bordered 
and well-defined by inch-wide boards 
that provided jolly tight-rope practice 
until grandmother came anxiously out 
with her oft-repeated: "Willie, don't 
walk on those boards; you'll break them 
down." And just after the warm spring 
showers these earth-walks always held 
tiny mud-puddles where the rain-bleached 
worms congregated until the robins came 
that way. 

There's something distinctive and in- 
dividual about the paths in a garden — 
they either "belong," or they do not. 
Imagine cement walks in grandmother's 
garden! Its walks are as much to a 
garden as its flowers or its birds or its 
beetles, and express that dear, indescrib- 
able intimacy that makes the Phlox a 





"And shining 
clear and true. 
... I see her 
who was the 
Spirit of the Garden. 



friend and the Johnny- Jump-Up a play- 
fellow. 



The best place for angle-worms was 
underneath the white Syringa bush — the 
tallest bloomer in the garden except the 
great Red Rose that climbed over the en- 
tire wall of the house, tacked to it by 
strips of red flannel, and whose blossoms 
were annually counted and reported to 
the weekly newspaper. 

Another good place was under the 
Snowball bush, where the ground was 
covered with white petals dropped from 
the countless blossom-balls that made 
passers-by stop in admiration. 

Still another good digging-ground was 
in the Lilac corner where the purple and 
white bushes exhaled their incomparable 
perfume. Grandmother forbade digging 
in the flower-beds — it was all right to go 
into the vegetable garden, but the tender 
flower-roots must not be exposed to the 



^^4- 



sun by ruthless boy hands intent only on 



the quest of bait 



Into the lapel of my dress coat She 
fastened a delicate orchid last night. It 
must have cost a pretty penny, at this 
season — enough, no doubt, to buy the 
seeds that would reproduce a half-dozen 
of my grandmother's gardens. And as 
we moved away in the limousine She 
asked me why I was so silent. She could 
not know that when she slipped its rare 
stem into place upon my coat, the long 
years dropped away — and I stood again 
where the Yellow Rose, all thorn-cov- 
ered, lifted its sunny top above the picket 
fence — ^plucked its choicest blossom, put 
it almost apologetically and ashamed into 
the buttonhole of my jacket — stuffed my 
hands into my pockets and went whistling 
down the street, with the yellow rose-tint 
and the sunlight and the curls on my 
child head all shining in harmony. The 
first boutonniere of my life — from the 
bush that became my confidant through 



all those wondrous years before they 
packed my trunk and sent me off to 
college ! 

To be sure, I loved the bright-faced 
Pansies which smiled cheerily up at me 
from their round bed — and the dear old 
Pinks, of a strange fragrance all their 
own — and the Sweet William, and even 
the grewsome Bleeding Heart that 
drooped so sad and forlorn in its alloted 
corner. Yet it is significant that last 
night's orchid took me straight back over 
memory's pathway to that simple yellow 
rose-bush by the fence ! 



Tonight, with the forgotten orchid in 
my lapel, and all the weight of the great 
struggle lying heavy against my heart, I 
stand where the night-fog veils the 
scraggly eucalyptus, and the dense silence 
blots out all the noises that have inter- 
vened between the Then and the Now — 
and I can see again the gorgeous Peonies, 
pink and white, where they toss their 
shaggy heads, and gather as of old the 




flaming Cock's Comb by the little path. 
I hear the honey-bees droning in the 
Crab Apple tree by the back gate, and 
watch the robins crowding the branches 
of the Mountain Ash, where the bright 
red berries cluster. I see the terrible 
bumble-bee bear down the Poppy on its 
slender stem and go buzzing threaten- 
ingly away, all pollen-covered. 

And shining clear and true through the 
mist I see her who was the Spirit of the 
Garden. There she stands, on the broad 
step beside the bed where the Lilies of 
the Valley grew, leaning firmly upon her 
one crutch, looking out across her garden 
to each loved group of her flower-friends 
— smiling out upon them as she did each 
day through fifty years — turning at last 
into the house and taking with her, in 
her heart, the glory of the Hollyhocks 
against the brick wall, the perfume of the 
Narcissus in the border, the wing-song 
of the humming-bird among the Honey- 
suckle, and the warmth of the glad June 
sunshine. 




The 
River 











:^^^. 




The River 



The river wasn't a big river as I look back at it 
now, yet it was wide and wandering and deep, and 
flowed quietly along through a wonderful Middle 
West valley, dividing the Little Old Town geograph- 
ically and socially. Its shores furnished such a boy 
playground as never was known anywhere else in 
all the world — for it was a gentle river, a kindly 
playfellow, an understanding friend ; and it seemed 
to fairly thrill in responsive glee when I plunged, 
naked and untamed, beneath the eddying waters of 
the swimming-hole under the overhanging wild-plum 
tree. 

Its banks, curving in a semi-circle around the vil- 
lage, marked the borders of the whole wide world. 
There were other rivers, other villages, other lands 
somewhere — all with strange, queer names — existing 
only in the geographies to worry little children. The 
real world, and all the really, truly folks and things, 
were along the far-stretching banks of this our river. 
Down by the flats, where the tiny creek widened to 
a minature swamp and emptied its placid waters into 
the main stream, the red-wing blackbirds sounded 
their strange cry among the cat-tails and the bull- 
rushes ; the frogs croaked in ceaseless and reverberant 
chorus ; the catfish were ever hungry after dark, and 
the night was broken by the glare of torches along 



/; 




the little bridge or in a group of boats where fisher- 
lads kept close watch upon their corks. Far below 
The Dam, where the changeful current had left a 
wide sand-bar and a great tree-trunk stretched its 
fallen length across from the shore to the water's 
edge, the mud-turtles basked in the sunshine, and, at 
the approach of Boyhood, glided or splashed to the 
safety of the water. 

The banks of the river were a deep and silent 
jungle wherein all manner of wild beasts and birds 
were hunted ; its bosom was the vasty deep out upon 
which our cherished argosies were sent. And how 
often their prows were unexpectedly turned by some 
new current into mid-stream ; sometimes saved by an 
assortment of missies breathlessly thrown to the far 
side, to bring them, wave-washed, back to us ; some- 
times, alas, swept mercilessly out to depths where 
only the eye and childish grief could follow them 
over the big dam to certain wreckage in the whirl- 
pools below, but even then not abandoned until the 
shore had been patrolled for salvage as far as courage 
held out. 

Let's go back to the banks of our beloved river, 
you and I — and get up early in the morning and run 
to the riffles near the old cooper-shop and catch a 
bucket of shiners and chubs, and then hurry on to 
Boomer's dam — or 'way upstream above the Island 
where we used to have the Sunday-school picnics — 
or maybe just stay at the in- town dam near the flour- 



mills and the saw-mills where old Shoemaker Schmidt 
used to catch so many big ones — fat, yellow pike and 
broad black-bass. We will climb high up on the 
mist-soaked timbers of the mill-race and settle our- 
selves contentedly — v/ith the spray moistening our 
faces and the warm sun browning our hands — and 
the heavy pounding of falling waters sounding in our 
ears so melodiously and so sweetly. Lazily, drowsily 
we'll hold a bamboo pole and guide our shiner 
through the foam-crowned eddies of the whirlpool, 
awaiting the flash of a golden side or a lusty tug at 
the line ; and dreamily watch a long, narrow stream 
of shavings and sawdust, loosed from the opposite 
planing-mill, float away on the current. And here, 
in the dear dream-days, the conquering of the world 
will be a simple matter ; for through the mist-prisms 
that rise from the foaming waters below the dam 
only rainbows can be seen — and there is Youth and 
the Springtime, and the new-born flowers and mating 
birds, and The River. . . . 

And when the sun is low we'll wind our poles, at 
the end of a rare and great day — one that cannot die 
with the sunset, but that will live so long as Memory 
is. Tonight we need not trudge over the fields 
toward home, in happy v/eariness, to Her who waited 
and watched for us at the window, peering through 
the gathering dusk until the anxious heart was stilled 
by the sight of tired little legs dragging down the 
street past the postoffice. We'll stay here in the twi- 



light, and watch the fire-flies light their fitful lamps, 
and the first stars blinking through the afterglow; 
and when the night drops down see the black bats 
careening weirdly across the moon. . . . And 
we'll stretch out again on the wild grass — soothed 
by the fragrance of the Mayapple and the violets, 
and the touch of the night-wind. . . How still 
it is . . , and The River doesn't seem to sound 
so loud when your head's on the ground — and your 
eyes are closed — and you're listening to the far, far, 
far-off lullaby of tumbling waters — and you're a bit 
tired, perhaps . . . a bit tired. . . . 



THE WINTER STREAM 

Somehow The River never terrified me. 

(It did mother, however!) 

Perhaps it brought no fear to me because it flowed 
so gently and so helpfully through such a wonderful 
valley of peace and plenty. Even in its austere win- 
ter aspect, with its tree-banks bare of leaves and its 
snow-and-ice-bound setting, it rejoiced me. 

Teams of big horses and wagons and scores of 
men worked busily upon its frozen surface, sawing 
and cutting and packing ice in the big wooden houses 
along the banks. 

Always there was enough wind for an ice-boat or 
a skate-sail, or to send a fellow swiftly along when 




m 



(i 



mother-made promises were forgotten and an un- 
buttoned coat was held outstretched to catch the 
breeze. 

At night the torches and bonfires flickered and 
glowed where the skaters sent the merry noises of 
their revelry afloat through the crisp air as they 
dodged steel-footed in and out among the huts of the 
winter fishermen. 

Perhaps I loved the winter river because I knew 
that beneath its forbidding surface there was the life 
of my loved lilies, and because I knew that all in 
good time the real river — our river — would be re- 
stored to us again, alive and joyous and unchanged. 

One day, when first the tiny rivulets started to 
run from the bottom of the snow-drifts, The River 
suddenly unloosed its artillery and the crisp air re- 
echoed with the booming that proclaimed the break- 
ing-up of the ice. Great crowds of people thronged 
the banks, wondering if the bridge would go out or 
would stand the strain of pounding ice-cakes. The 
unmistakable note of a robin sounded from some- 
where. Great dark spots began to show in the white 
ice-ribbon that wound through the valley. The air 
at sundown had lost its sting. 

So day by day the breaking-up continued until at 
last the blessed stream was clear — ^the bass jumped 
hungry to the fly — the daffodils and violets sprang 
from beneath their wet leaf-blankets — and all the 



/ 



world joined the birds in. one grand song of e; 
pation and joy. '^^^ 



THE BIG BEND 

Above the town, just beyond the red iron bridge, 
the river made a great bend and widened into a lake 
where the banks were willow-grown and reeds and 
rushes and grasses and lily-pads pushed far out into 
mid-stream, leaving only a narrow channel of clear 
water. 

To the Big Bend our canoe glided often, paddling 
lazily along and going far up-stream to drift back 
with the current. 

Arms bared to the shoulder, we reached deep be- 
neath the surface to bring up the long-stemmed 
water-lilies — the great white blossoms, and the queer 
little yellow-and-black ones. 

Like a bright-eyed sprite the tiny marsh-wren 
flitted among the rushes, and the musk-rat built 
strange reed-castles at the water's edge. 

The lace-v/inged dragon-fly following our boat 
darted from side to side, or poised in air, or alighted 
on the dripping blade of our paddle when it rested 
for a moment across our knees. 

Among the grasses the wind-harps played weird 
melodies which only Boyhood could interpret. 

In this place The River sang its love-songs, and 
sent forth an answering note to the vast harmonious 



blending of blue sky and golden day and Incense- 
heavy air and the glad songs of birds. 

And here at this tranquil bend The River seemed 
to be the self-same river of the old, loved hymn we 
sang so often in the Little Church With The White 
Steeple — that river which "flows by the throne of 
God"; fulfilling the promise of the ancient prophet 
of prophets and bringing "peace . . . like a 
river, and glory . . . like a flowing stream." 




Christmas 



4 4 4 4 




Christmas 

E always used grandmother's stocking — 
C Of /i because it was the biggest one in the family, 
-^ '^/ much larger than mother's, and somehow 
it seemed able to stretch more than hers. 
There was so much room in the foot, too — a chance 
for all sorts of packages. 

There was a carpet-covered couch against the 
flowered wall in one corner of the parlor. Between 
the foot of it and the chimney, was the door into our 
bedroom. I always hung my stocking at the side of 
the door nearest the couch, on the theory, well- 
defined in my mind with each recurring Christmas, 
that if by any chance Santa Claus brought me more 
than he could get into the stocking, he could pile the 
overflow on the couch. And he always did ! 

It may seem strange that a lad who seldom heard 
even the third getting-up call in the morning should 
have awakened without any calling once a year — or 
that his red-night-gowned figure should have leaped 
from the depths of his feather bed — or that he should 
have crept breathless and fearful to the door where 
the stocking hung. Notwithstanding the ripe experi- 
ence of years past, when each Christmas found the 
generous stocking stuffed with good things, there 
was always the chance that Santa Claus might have 
forgotten, this year — or that he might have miscalcu- 
lated his supply and not have enough to go 'round — - 



or that he had not been correctly informed as to just 
what you wanted — or that some accident might have 
befallen his reindeer-and-sleigh to detain him until 
the grey dawn of Christmas morning stopped his 
work and sent him scurrying back to his toy kingdom 
to await another Yule-tide. 

And so, in the fearful silence and darkness of that 
early hour, with stilled breath and heart beating so 
loudly you thought it would awaken everyone in the 
house, you softly opened the door — poked your arm 
through — felt around where the stocking ought to be, 
but with a great sinking in your heart when you 
didn't find it the first time — and finally your chubby 
fist clutched the misshapen, lumpy, bulging fabric 
that proclaimed a generous Santa Claus. 

Yes, it was there ! 

That was enough for the moment. A hurried 
climb back into the warm bed — and then intermi- 
nable years of waiting until your attuned ear caught 
the first sounds of grandmother's dressing in her 
nearby bedroom, and the first gleam of winter day- 
light permitted you to see the wondrous stocking and 
the array of packages on the sofa. It was beyond 
human strength to refrain from just one look. But 
alas ! The sight of a dapple-grey rocking-horse with 
silken mane and flowing tail was too much, and thd 
next moment you were in the room with your arms 
around his arched neck, while peals of unrestrained 
joy brought the whole family to the scene. Then it 




was that mother gathered you into her lap, and 
wrapped her skirt about your bare legs, and held 
your trembling form tight in her arms until you 
promised to get dressed if they would open just one 
package — the big one on the end of the sofa. After 
that there was always "just one more, mother, 
please!" and by that time the base burner was warm- 
ing up and you were on the floor in the middle of the 
discarded wrapping-paper, uncovering each wondrous 
package down to the very last — the very, very last — 
in the very toe of the stocking — the big round one 
that you were sure was a real league ball but v/hich 
proved to be nothing but an orange ! . . . 

No Santa Claus? Huh! . . . 

If there isn't any Santa Claus, what does he put 
all the sample toys in the stores for every Christmas 
so boys and girls can see what they want? If he 
doesn't fill the stockings, who( does, I'd like to know. 
Some folks say that father and mother do it — but 
s'posin' they do, it's only to help Santa Claus some- 
times when he's late or overworked, or something 
like that. 

The Spirit of Christmas is Santa Claus — else how 
could he get around to everybody in the whole world 
at exactly the same time of the night ? 

4 k 

There is a new high-power motor in my garage. 
It came to me yesterday — Christmas. It is very 



beautiful, and it cost a great deal of money, a very- 
great deal. If we were in the Little Old Town it 
would take us all out to Aunt Em's farm in ten 
minutes. (It always took her an hour to drive in 
with the old spotted white mare. ) 

I am quite happy to have this wonderful new horse 
of today, and there is some warmth inside of me as 
I walk around it in the garage while Henry, its 
keeper, flicks with his chamois every last vestige of 
dust from its shiny sides. 

And yet . . . how gladly would I give it up 
if only I could have been in my feather bed last night 
— if I could have awakened at daybreak and crept 
softly, red-flanneled and barefooted, to the parlor 
door — if I could have groped for grandmother's 
stocking and felt its lumpy shape respond to my eager 
touch — and if I could have known the thrill of that 
dapply-grey rocking-horse when I flung my arms 
around its neck and buried my face in its silken 
mane! 



Butter, Eggs, Ducks, Geese 



It seems mighty convenient to telephone your 
grocer to send up a pound of butter and have It 
come all squeezed tight Into a nice square-cornered 
cardboard box whose bright and multi-colored label 
assures you that the butter has been properly de- 
odorized, fumigated, washed, sterilized, antlseptlclzed 
and conforms In every other respect to the Food and 
Drugs Act, Serial 1762973-A. You read the label 
again and feel reasonably safe at meals. 

Huh! Precious little grandmother knew about 
that kind of butter ! 

Hers came In a basket — a great big worn-brown- 
and-shlny, round bottom, willow basket, hand-wove. 
It didn't come In any white-and-gold delivery wagon, 
either. It was delivered by a round-faced, rosy- 
cheeked, gingham-gowned picture of health, whose 
apron-strings barely met around the middle — for 
Frau Hummel brought It herself — after having first 
milked the cows with her own hands and wielded 
the churning-stick with her own stout German arms. 
She had the butter all covered up with fresh, sweet, 
white-linen cloths — and hand-moulded Into big rolls 
■ — each roll wrapped In Its own Immaculate cloth — 
and when that cloth was slowly pulled away so- that 
grandmother could stick the point of a knife in the 
butter and test It on her tongue, you could see the 
white, salt all over the roll — and even the imprint of 



the cloth-threads . . . Good? . . . Why, 
you could eat it without bread ! 

"What else have you got today, Mrs. Hummel?" 
(Grandmother never could say "Frau" — and as if 
she didn't know vrhat else was in the basket!) 

"Veil, Mrs. Van, dere is meppe some eks, und a 
dook — und also dere is left von fine stuffed geese." 

So the cloth covering was rolled farther back — 
and the 3-dozen eggs were gently taken out and put 
in the old tin egg-bucket — and just then grandfather 
came in and lifted tenderly out of the basket one of 
those wonderful geese "stuffed" with good food in a 
dark cellar until fat enough for market. . . . 
Ever have a toothful of that kind of goose-breast or 
second joint? . . . No? . . . Your life is 
yet incomplete — you have something to live for! 
. . . Goodness me! I cant describe it! . . . 
How can a fellow tell about such things! . . . 
It's like — ^well, it's like Frau Hummel's "stuffed" 
goose, that's all ! . . . 

And then it was weighed on the old balances, or 
steels — (no, I don't mean scales!) — ^halyards, you 
know — a long-armed affair with a pear-shaped chunk %, 
of iron at one end and a hook at the other and a 
handle somewhere in between at the center-of-grav- 
ity, or some such place. . . . Anyway, they 
gave an honest pound, which is perhaps another re- 
spect in which they were different. 

Then the ducks, too, were unwrapped from their 
white cloths and weighed — usually a pair pf them— 




and the old willow basket had nothing left but its 
bundle of cloths when Frau Hummel started out 
again on her 10-mile walk to the farm! 

Whenever I see a glassy-eyed, feather-headed, cold- 
storage chicken half plucked and discolored hanging 
in a present-day butcher-shop accumulating dust — or 
a scrawny duck almost popping through its skin — I 
think of Frau Hummel and her willow basket. . . . 

But Frau Hummel isn't here now — and they don't 
build ducks and geese like hers any more — and her 
old willow basket is probably in some collection, 
while we use these machine-made things that fall to 
pieces when you accidentally stub your toe against 
them in the cellar. . . . We are hurrying along 
so fast that we don't see anything until it's cooked 
and served. . . . We just use the phone and let 
them send us any old thing that they can charge on 
a bill. . . . But in those days grandfather and 
grandmother inspected everything — and it just had 
to be good — and there weren't any trusts — or eggs 
of various grades from just eggs to strictly fresh eggs 
and on down to eggs guaranteed to boil without 
crowing. Every Frau Hummel in the country 
wanted the Van Alstyne trade — and Frau Hummel 
knew it — and she never brought anything to that 
back kitchen door unless it was perfect of its kind. 

No wonder grandfather lived to be 92 and grand- 
mother 86 — in good health and spirits to the last! 




The Sugar Barrels 

Do you remember the three barrels of sugar in 
the dark place under the stairs — or were they in 
the big pantry just off the kitchen? 

Well, anyway, there were three, you recollect — 
two of white and one of brown. 

Always the brown sugar — and each Autumn the 
same colloquy: 

"Mr. Van, don't you think we can get along 
without the brown sugar this year?" 

"Now, Mrs. Van, you've got to have a little 
brown sugar in the house — and it comes cheaper 
by the barrel." 

"Yes, so it does, Mr. Van We can 

use it, I suppose, in something And 

we always have had it, and Well, 

do as you think best." 

White sugar was good when you had something 
to go with it. 

But brown sugar stood alone — sticky, heavy, 
crumbly lumps that held together until a fellow 
could tip back his head and drop one of the chunks 
in his mouth. 



And after school grandmother could be persuaded 
to cut a full-size slice of bread (thick) and spread 
it with butter (thick) and you'd start away with it 
(quick) — just nibbling at one edge, not really bit- 
ing — and you'd sneak into the dark place under the 
stairs (or into the pantry) — and reach deep down 
into the white sugar barrel — and grab a handful — 
and sprinkle it over the bread-and-butter — and shake 
back into the barrel all that didn't stick to the butter 
— and then do it all over again — and pat it down 
hard — and then sprinkle just a little bit more on 
hurriedly, (because grandfather's cane could be 
heard tapping down the hall) — and then you 
emerged with dignity, but with no unnecessary com- 
motion — and just faded away into the Outer World 
so softly, so gently, so contentedly! 

(Have you tried any bread-and-butter-and-sugar 
recently ? Did it taste the same as it used to ? . . . 

No? . . . Perhaps you broke it into pieces 
instead of beginning at one side and eating straight 
through ? 

Or maybe you got hold of the cooking butter 
... Or did you try it with baker's bread ? . . . 

No? . . . Well, zf/r^' didn't it taste the same?) 



f://-t^ -^ 



.^.:==J^. 



Jimmy 
The Lamplighter 




\ 



^ 



Jimmy, the Lamplighter 



The sun had gone down behind the willows on 
the river-bank. The night-clouds still carried the 
crimson-and-purple of the late twilight; and the 
deep, still waters of the channel gave back the colors 
and the gleam of the first stars that heralded the 

night The martins chattered under 

the eaves, scolding some belated member of the clan 
who pushed noisily for a lodging-place for the night. 
The black bat and the darting nighthawk were 
a-Aving, grim spectres of the dusk. The whip-poor- 
will w^as crying along the river, and far up-stream 
the loon called weirdly across the water 

A small boy was sitting on grandfather's front 
steps, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his palms, 
seeing familiar objects disappear in the gathering 
dusk, and watching the stars come out. He was safe, 
very safe — for grandfather had not gone to the 
dining-room yet, and his arms could be reached for 
shelter in two or three bounds, if need be. So it 
was very pleasant to sit on the steps and see the 
little old town fold-up its affairs and settle down 
for the night. 

And more particularly to watch for Jimmy, the 
Lamplighter. 

Far up the street, in the almost-dark place, about 
where Schmidt's shoestore ought to be, a point of 



light flashed suddenly, flickered, and then burned 
steadily — and in a moment another,, across the street 
. . . . Then a space of black, and two more 
points appeared. Down the street they came in 
pairs, closely following the retreating day. 

And the Little Boy on the Steps knew that it 
was Jimmy, the Lamplighter, working his way 
swiftly and silently. If only the dinner-bell would 
delay awhile The Boy would see old Jimmy light 
the lamp on grandfather's corner, as he had seen 
him countless times before. 

Then, just as the red glow faded in the West 
and Night settled down, he came swinging sturdily 
across the street, his ladder hung on his right shoul- 
der, his wax taper in his left hand. Quickly, un- 
erringly he placed the ladder against the iron post 
that sent its metalic ring into the clear night air 
as the ladder struck, and was three rounds up almost 
before it settled into position. Then a quick open- 
ing of the glass; a struggle with the matches in the 
wind, a hurried closing of the door, one quick look 
upward; an arm through the ladder and a swing 
to the shoulder — and Jimmy the Lamplighter was 
busily off to his next corner. 

Once, in the later years, he came with his new 
lighter — a splendid brass affair, with smooth wood 
handle, holding a wax taper that flickered fitfully 
down the street and marked old Jimmy's pathway 
through the dusk. Although he could reach up 



and turn on the gas with the key-slot at the end of 
the scepter and light it with the taper, all at one 
time, he ever carried the ladder — for none could 
tell when or where a burner might need fixing, or 
there would be other need to climb the post as in 
the days of the lamp and sulphur-match. 

Short of stature, firm of build, was old Jimmy. 
The night storms of innumerable years had bronzed 
his skin and furrowed his face. Innumerable years, 
yes — for so faithful a servant as old Jimmy the 
Lamplighter was not to be cast away by every 
caprice of the public mind which changed the polit- 
ical aspect of the town council. So Jimmy stayed 
on through the years and changing administrations 
— in the sultry heat of the summer nights, or breast- 
ing his way through winter's huge snow-drifts, front- 
ing the wind-driven sleet, or dripping through the 
spring-time rain, his taper hugged tight beneath his 
thick rubber coat, his matches safe in the depths of 
an inside pocket. 

And tonight, as the Boy still watches, in memory, 
old Jimmy on his rounds, they are a bit odd, these 
queer old street lamps that just seem to belong to 
the night, after the garish blaze of electric signs 
and the great arc-lights in the shop windows. Yet 
it shines through the years, this simple lamp of the 
Long Ago, as it shone through the night of old — a 
friendly beacon only, the modest servant of an 
humble race 



Jimmy's boy Ted, who carried his father's ladder 
and taper when the good old man laid them down, 
now nods in his chimney-corner o' nights. But his 
boy, old Jimmy's grandson, is still a lamplighter — 
still illuminating the streets of his town, still turn- 
ing on its lamps when the loon calls weirdly across 
the river in the gathering dusk. 

He bears no ladder nor fitful taper — ^he dreads no 
sultry summer heat — he breasts no snowdrifts — ^he 
battles against no wind-driven sleet and rain. 

There he sits, inside yonder great brick building, 
his chair tipped back against the wall, reading the 
evening paper while the giant wheels of the dynamo 
purr softly and steadily. He lowers his paper — 
looks at the clock — then out into the early twilight 
. . . . then slowly turns to the wall, pushes a 
bit of a button, takes up his paper again, and goes 
on with his reading — ^while a thousand lights burn 
white through the city! .... 

Ah, Jimmy, Jimmy! the world is all awry, man! 
Your son's son lights his thousand lamps in a flash 
that's no more than the puff of wind that used to 
blow your match out when you stood on your ladder 
and lighted one! 




I E 



■Jliia^IS 



Come to think of it, the Old Folks never made 
such a fuss about flies as we make nowadays. You 
cannot pick up a magazine without running plumb 
into an article on the deadly housefly — ^with pictures 
of him magnified until he looks like the old million- 
toed, barrel-eyed, spike-tailed dragon of your boy- 
hood mince-pie dreams. The first two pages con- 
vince you that the human race is doomed to exter- 
mination within eighteen months by the housefly 
route ! 

Grandmother never resorted to very drastic meas- 
ures. The most violent thing she ever did was to 
get little Annie, Bridget-the-housewoman's Annie, to 
help her chase them out. They went from room to 
room periodically (when flies became too numerous), 
each armed with an old sawed-off broom-handle on 
which were tacked long cloth streamers — a sort of 
cat-o'-nine-tails effect, only with about a score or 
more of tails. After herding the blue-bottles and all 
their kith and kin into a fairly compact bunch at 
the door, little Annie opened the screen and grand- 
mother drove them out — and that's all there was 
to ft. 

Another favorite device (particularly in the din- 
ing-room and kitchen), was the "fly-gallery" — a 
wonderful array of multicolored tissue-paper fes- 



tooned artistically from the ceiling or around the 
gas-pipes to lure or induce the fly into moments of 
inactivity. There was no extermination in this de- 
vice — it w^as purely preventive in its function — the 
idea being that since there must be fly-specks, better 
to mass them as much as possible on places where 
they would show the least and could be removed the 
easiest when sufficiently accumulated. 

But the greatest ounce-of-prevention was the 
screen hemisphere. Gee ! I haven't thought of that 
thing for years, have you? Of course you remember 
it — absolutely fly-proof — one clapped over the butter, 
another over the cracker-bowl, another over the 
sugar. 

And say! I almost forgot! . . . (Yes, I 
know you were just going to speak of it!) . . . 
That conical screen fly-trap — where the flies see 
something good inside, crawl up to the top and then 
over and in — and then can't get out — but just buzz 
and buzz and buzz — and make a lot of fuss about 
it — bluebottles and all — no respecter of persons — and 
when it gets full of the quick and dead in flydom, 
Bridget takes it out in the back yard and dumps It. 
Very simple . . . clean, peaceful, effective. 

My, My! But it's a far cry back to those days, 
isn't it? And wouldn't you like to right this minute 
sneak into the cool, curtain-down, ever-so-qulet din- 
ing-room again . . . and nose around to see 
if anything edible had been overlooked — and see one 
of those dear old round fly-screens guarding the 
sugar ! 




The Autumn Leaves 

There were three recognized uses for leaves in 
the Autumn — first, to be banked by the wind along 
fences or sidewalk edges and provide kicking-ground 
for exuberant youngsters returning home from 
school; second, to be packed around the founda- 
tions of the house as a measure for interior comfort 
in winter; and, third, to be pressed between the pages 
of the big Bible and kept for ornamental purposes 
until they crumbled and had to be thrown away. 
This last-named use was always questioned by every 
red-blooded boy, and more tolerated than accepted 
— a concession to the women of earth, from little 
sister with her bright-hued wreath to mother and 
grandmother with their book of pressed leaves. 

Even for purposes of comfort their use was more 
or less secondary — granted because the banking-up 
process was a man's job and an out-door enterprise. 
Then, too, it was a lot of fun to rake the big yard 
and get the fallen leaves into one or two huge piles ; 
and wheelbarrow them to the edge of the house 
where old Spencer had driven the wooden pegs that 
held the boards ready to receive the leaves. Load 
after load was dumped into the trough-like arrange- 



ment and stamped down tight and hard by old Tom's 
huge feet and little Willie's eager but ineffective 
ones — and then the top board was fastened down, 
and never a cold winter wind could find its way un- 
der the floors with such a protective bulwark around 
the house. . . . And in the spring the boards 
had to be taken down — and countless bleached bugs 
fairly oozed out into the spring sunlight — and the 
snow-wet soggy leaves were raked out and burned, 
and the smoke was so thick and heavy that it hardly 
got out of the yard. 

But the real use of leaves — their only legitimate 
function in the Autumn, according to all accepted 
boy-law — was for kicking purposes. 

Plunging through banks of dry leaves along the 
edge of the sidewalk — knee-deep sometimes — scatter- 
ing them in all directions, even about our heads — 
there was such a racket that we could scarcely hear 
each other's shouts of glee. And we'd run through 
them only to dive exhausted into some huge pile of 
them, rolling and kicking and hollering until some 
kid came along and chucked an armful, dirt and all, 
plumb into our face! This was the signal for a 
battle of leaves — and perhaps there would have been 
fewer tardy-marks, teacher, if there had been fewer 
autumn leaves along the route . . . Perhaps! 

There were influences that tempered the joys of 
leaf-kicking — some "meanie" was always ready to 
hide a big rock, or other disagreeable foreign sub- 



stance, under a particularly inviting bunch of leaves 
— then v^^atch and giggle at your discomfiture when 
you came innocently ploughing along! 

What a riot of wonderful color they made just 
after the first frosts had turned their green to red 
and gold and brown! As a boy I disdained so 
weak a thing as noticing the coloring on Big Hill 
— but now, in the long-after years, I realize that 
its vivid Autumn garment was indestructibly fixed 
in my memory and has lived — saved for me until 
I could look back through Time's long glass and 
understand and love that glorious picture. Not even 
the brush of a Barbizon master could tell the story 
of Big Hill, three miles up the river from Main 
Street bridge, gleaming in the hues that Jack Frost 
mixed, beneath the blue-gold dome of a cloudless sky 
— for it could not paint the chatter of the squirrel, 
or the glint of the bursting bittersweet berry, or the 
call of the crow, or the crisp of the air, or the joy 
of life that only boyhood knows! 




'T^Hgy 



J^ p* 




Getting in the Wood 

An autumnal event of importance, second only to 
the filling of the meat-house, was the purchase and 
sawing of the wood. 

Three sizes, remember — the 4-foot lengths for 
the long, low stove in the Big Room, 12-inch 
"chunks" for the oval sheet-iron stove in the parlor, 
and the fine-split 18-inch lengths for the kitchen. 
(Yes, they burned wood in the kitchen — not only 
wood, but oak and maple and hickory — the kind 
you buyl by the carat nowadays ! ) 

And what a fire it made ! Two sticks of the long 
wood in the stove in the Big Room, and the damper 
open, and you'd have to raise the windows inside of 
fifteen minutes no matter how low the thermometer 
registered outside. In the kitchen grandmother did 
all her cooking with a wood fire — using the ashes 
for the lye barrel — and the feasts that came steaming 
from her famous oven have never been equalled on 
any gas-range ever made. (Gas-range! how grand- 
mother would have snififed in scorn at such a sugges- 



tlon!) Even coal was only fit for the base burner 
in the family sitting-room — and that must be anthra- 
cite, or ''hard" coal, the kind that comes in sacks 
nowadays at about the same price as butter and eggs. 
And even the wood had to be split just so and be 
"clear" and right, or grandmother would scold 
grandfather for not wearing his near-seeing specs 
when he bought it. "Guess they fooled you on that 
load, Mr. Van," she'd say. "It isn't like the last 
we had." 

Don't you remember how you were hanging 
around the kitchen one Saturday morning kind-a 
waiting for something to come within reach, and 
grandfather's cane came tap-tapping down the long 
hail, and he pushed open the kitchen door and stood 
there, just inside the door, until the kettle started 
boiling over and making such a noise. And then he 
announced that he thought he better go out and see 
if there was any wood in market. (As if there 
weren't fifty farmers lined up there almost before 
daylight!) It was about nine o'clock and the sun 
had had a chance to w^arm things up a bit — so grand- 
mother wrapped him up in his knitted muffler and 
away he went beneath his shiny silk hat. And be- 
cause you stood around and looked wistfully up at 
him, he finally turned back, just before he reached 
the big front door and said: "Want to go along, 
Billie?" Of course you went, because there were 
all kinds of shops on the way up town to the wood 



market and grandfather always had an extra nickle 
for such occasions. 

Can't you just see that wood-market now, as it 
used to be in the Long Ago — with its big platform 
scales — and its wagons of accurately-piled cord-wood 
marked on the end of some stick with the white 
chalk-mark of the official "inspector" and measurer 
— and the farmers all bundled-up and tied-around 
with various cold-dispelling devices and big mitts and 
fur caps? So far as you could tell then (or now, 
either, I'll wager!) every load was exactly like every 
other load — but not so to grandfather, for he would 
scrutinize them all, sound them with his stick, barter 
and dicker and look out for knots — and then make 
the rounds again and do it all over before finally 
making his selection — and I distinctly remember 
feeling that the wood left in market after grand- 
father had made his selection wasn't worth hauling 
away! 

Load after load was driven up to the high back- 
yard fence and its sticks heaved into the yard and 
piled in perfect order — and it made a goodly and 
formidable showing when Old Pete, the wood- 
sawyer, finally arrived on the scene. The time of 
wood-buying was determined partly by Pete's en- 
gagements — he went first to the Perkinses and next 
to the Williamses and so on in rotation as he had 
done for years, his entire winter being "engaged" 
far ahead. It did not seem possible, to boyish mind. 



that one man could ever get all that wood sawed 
and split, even if he was a great giant Norseman 
with the finest buck-saw in the country. 

But each year Old Pete's prowess seemed to in- 
crease — and day after day the ceaseless music of his 
saw sounded across the crisp air — and the measured 
strokes of his axe struck a clarion note — until finally 
the yard showed only chips and saw-dust where that 
vast wood-pile had been — and the big barn was 
piled full to the rafters — the kitchen wood and 
chunks on one side, the big wood on the other. 

Then Pete would come in and announce that 
the job was done — and grandfather would bundle- 
up and go out for a final inspection. Pete removed 
the pad from his leg (you remember the carpet he 
wore on his left knee — the one that held the stick 
in place in the buck when he was sawing) and to- 
gether they went into the barn — and talked it all 
over — and Pete said it was harder wood than last 
year's and more knots in it and ought to be worth 
two shillings more than contract price — and grand- 
father finally allowed the excess — and Old Pete 
came in and got his money (in gold and silver) and 
a bowl of coffee and some bread — and went his way 
to the Jonesses or some other folks. 

And you, young man — you surely hated to see 
that great Viking go — for he had told you many 
a wonderful tale at the noon hour as he munched 
his thick sandwiches — and no one could look at his 



massive head and huge shoulders and great beard 
and hair and doubt that his forebears had done all 
that he credited to them. 

Somehow, Old Pete seemed more real than most 
men you knew — except grandfather, of course. 
There was something unexplainable in the man and 
his work that rang true — something that was so 
wholesome and sound. He wasn't like old Haw- 
kins, the grocer — he'd as lief give you a rotten apple 
as not if he could smuggle it into the bag without 
you seeing him ; and Kline the candy-man sometimes 
sold you old hard stuff mixed with the fresh. But 
Old Pete here — he just worked honest and steady — 
out in the open — at a fixed v/age — and he did an 
honest job and was proud of it even if it was only 
sawing wood. He worked faithfully until it was 
done, and then he got a good word and a bowl of 
coffee and his wages in gold and silver — and went 
his way rejoicing, leaving behind him the glory of 
labor well performed blending with the refreshing 
fragrance of new-cut logs that sifted through the 
cracks of the old barn. 




The 
Rain 




It is early, and Saturday morning — very, very 
early. 

Listen! . . . An unmistakable drip, drip, 
drip . . . and the room is dark. 

A bound out of bed — a quick step to the window 
— -an anxious peering through the wet panes 
. . . . and the confirmation is complete. 

It is raining — and on Saturday; the familiar leaden 
skies and steady drip that spell permanency and send 
the robin to the shelter of some thick bush, and leave 
only an occasional undaunted swallow cleaving the 
air on swift wing. 

In all the world there is no sadness like that 
which in boyhood sends you back to bed on Satur- 
day morning with the mournful drip, drip, drip of a 
steady rain doling in your ears. 

Out in the woodshed there is a can of the largest, 
fattest angle-worms ever dug from a rich garden- 
plot — all so happily, so feverishly, so exultantly cap- 
tured last night when Anticipation strengthened the 
little muscles that wielded the heavy spade. All 



safe in their black soil they wait, coiled round and 
round each other into a solid worm-ball in the bot- 
tom of the can. 

A mile down the river the dam is calling — the 
tumbled waters are swirling and eddying and foam- 
ing over the deep places where the black-bass wait 
— and old Shoemaker Schmidt, patriarch of the river, 
is there this very minute, unwinding his pole, for 
well he knows that if one cares to brave the weather 
he will catch the largest and finest and most bass 
when the rain is falling on the river. 

But small boys who have anxious mothers do not 
go fishing on rainy days — so there is no need of 
haste, and one might as well go back to bed and 
sleep unconcernedly just as late as possible. If 
only a fellow could get up between showers, or be- 
fore the rain actually starts, so that he could truth- 
fully say: "But, mother, really and truly, it wasn't 
raining when we started!" it would be all right, 
and the escape was warrantable, justified and safe; 
but with the rain actually falling, there was nothing 
to do but go to sleep again and turn the worms back 
into the garden if the rain didn't let up by noon. 



It is one of the miracles of life that Boyhood can 
turn grief into joy and become almost instantly re- 
conciled to the inevitable like a true philosopher, and 
change a sorrow into a blessing. The companion 
miracle is that Manhood with its years of wisdom 
forgets how to do this. 



And so, when the rainy day becomes hopelessly 
rainy, and Shoemaker Schmidt is left alone at the 
dam, the rain that sounded so dismal at dawn proves 
to be a benefactor after all. There will be no wood- 
splitting today, no outdoor chores — for if it's too 
wet to go fishing, as mother insists, of course it's too 
wet to carry wood, or weed gardens or pick cucum- 
bers for pickles. The logic is so obvious and con- 
clusive that even mother does not press the point 
when you remind her of it — and you are free for 
a whole day in the attic. 

Instantly the blessing is manifest — the sadness of 
that day-break drip, drip, drip is healed — the whole 
character of the day is changed, and the rain-melody 
becomes not a funeral-march but a dance. 

The attic is the place of all places you would most 
love to be on this particular calendar day ! 

How stupid to spoil a perfectly good Saturday by 
sitting on a hard beam, with wet spray blowing in 
your face all the time, and getting all tired out 
holding a heavy fish-pole, when here is the attic 
waiting for you with its mysterious dark corners, 
its scurrying mice that suddenly develop into lions 
for your bow-and-arrow hunting, and its maneuvers 
on the broad field of its floor with yourself as the 
drum-corps and your companions as the army 
equipped with wooden swords and paper helmets! 



The day has been rich in adventure, and explor- 
ation, and the doing of great deeds. 



And it has been all too short, for the attic is 
growing dim, and mother is again calling us — tell- 
ing us to send our little playmates home and come 
and get our bread and milk. 

A last arrow is shot into the farthest corner where 
some undiscovered jungle beast may be prowling. 

A last roll is given to the drum, and the army 
disbands. 

A sudden fear seizes upon us as we realize that 
night has come and we are in the attic, alone. 

And with no need of further urging we scamper 
unceremoniously down the stairs, slam the attic door, 
and hurry into the kitchen where Maggie has our 
table waiting .... 



Eight o'clock — and we're all tucked away among 
the feathers again! 

Aren't we glad we didn't go down to the river 
— it would have been a cold, dismal day — and per- 
haps they weren't biting today, anyway — and we 
should have gotten very wet. 

It is still raining, raining hard — pattering unceas- 
ingly on the roof . . . And the tin eave-troughs 
are singing their gentle lullaby of running water 
trickling from the shingles ... a lullaby so 
soothing that we do not hear mother softly open 
the door . . . and come to our crib . . . 
and place the little bare arms under the covers 
. . . and leave a kiss on the yellow 
curls and a benediction in the room. 





Grandmother 



Do you remember the day she lost her glasses? 
My, such a commotion! Everybody turned In to 
hunt for them. Grandmother tramped from one end 
of the house to the other — we all searched — upstairs 
and down — with no success. 

They weren't in the big Bible (we turned the 
leaves carefully many times — it was the most likely 
place). They weren't in either of her sewing bas- 
kets, nor in the cook-book in the kitchen. Grand- 
father said she could use one pair of his gold-bowed 
ones — but shucks! She couldn't see with anything 
except those old steel-bowed specs! . . . 

And then, when she finally sat down and said for 

the fiftieth time : "I wonder where those specs are !" 

. . and put the corner of her apron to her 



eyes — I happened to look up, and there they were — 
on the top of her head! Been there all the time 
. . . And she enjoyed the joke as much as we 
did — a joke that went around the little town and 
followed her through all the years within my mem- 
ory of her. 

Sometimes (as often as expedient), you asked her 
for a penny — never more, and then: 

"Now, Willie, what do you want with a penny? 
I haven't got it. Run along now." 

"Aw, Gran 'ma, don't make a feller tell what he's 
goin' to buy. I know you got one — Look'n see! 
Please, Gran'ma!" 

Slowly the wrinkled hand would fumble for that 
skirt-pocket which was always so hard to locate — 
and from its depths there would come the old worn 
leather wallet with a strap around it — and slowly, 
(gee! how s-1-o-w-l-y), — after much fumbling, dur- 
ing which you were never sure whether you were 
going to get it or not ... the penny would 
come forth and be placed (with seeming reluctance) 
in the grimy, dirty boy-hand. And usually, just as 
you reached the door on your hurried way to the 
nearest candy-shop, she would scare you almost stiff 
by calling you back, and say: 

"Wait a minute, Willie, I found another one 
that I didn't know was in here!" 



And then you kissed her wrinkled, soft cheek and 
ran away thinking, after all, grandmother was pretty 
good. 

Good? 

Can a woman stick to a man through sixty-odd 
years — and keep his linen and his broadcloth — and 
bear him children — and make them Into fine wives 
and husbands — and take them back to her bosom 
when their mates turn against them — and raise a 
bunch of riotous grandchildren — and manage such 
a household as ours with never a complaint — get up 
at five o'clock every morning and sit up till half- 
after nine o'clock every night — busy all the time — 
and nurse her own and other folks' ailments without 
a murmur — and submerge self completely In her con- 
stant doing for others — can a frail woman so live for 
eighty-six years and be anything less than good? 

And then, at the end of the long journey she was 
still trudging patiently and gladly along, side by side 
with Grandfather — making less fuss over the years- 
old pain In her knees than we make now over a splin- 
ter in a finger — going daily and uncomplainingly 
about her manifold duties. 

And at night, about an hour before bedtime, she 
would sit down In the black-upholstered rocker al- 
most behind the big base burner — her first quiet 
moment in all the long day — head resting against 
the chair's high back — and doze and listen to the 



fitful conversation in the room, or to someone read- 
ing — giving everything, demanding nothing — as had 
been her wont all the long years! 

And Christmas eve . . . (I'll have to go a 
bit slow now) . . . On Christmas eve, you 
remember, when out-of-doors the big snow-flakes 
were slowly and softly fluttering down, grandmother 
would get the huge Bible and her treasure-box and 
bring them up to the little round table covered with 
its red cloth . . . And you'd get a chair and 
come up close ('cause you knew what was happen- 
ing) . . . Then she would read you a won- 
derful story out of the Bible about the love of God 
so great that He sent His only-begotten Son to be 
a Light unto the World . . . and then she'd 
go down into that little old card-board treasure-box 
and find some Christmas carols printed in beautiful 
colors on lace-edged cards folded up just like a fan. 
She would look down at you over the top of her 
specs and tell you how the street minstrels in Eng- 
land used to stand out in the snow and sing, and 
be brought into the house and given the fresh-brewed 
beer and ale, and a bite to eat — going from house 
to house all through the early night . . . 

And then she would close her eyes and begin to 
sing the dear old carols . . . with the tremble 
in her voice . . . and tapping on the table with 
her finger-ends in rhythm . . . and Memory's 



tears dropping on the wrinkled cheeks . . . and 
the tremulous voice, still soft and sweet, chanting: 
"God rest you, merrie gentlemen ! 
Let nothing you dismay; 
For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, 
Was born on Christmas Day!" 



Aye and amen, dear soul! God rest you — and 
He does! 



^ jWt 

'-f^:mM '^iw! }^rd^^ 





When the Day is Done 

If the page blurs, as it may do if you were ever 
a child and if you have been tempered in the cruel 
furnace of the years, maybe the mists that fill the 
eyes will bathe the soul of you in their hallowed 
flood until the world-ache is soothed, and you can 
start up the big road again with some of the same 
wonderful exultation that sped you onward and for- 
ward in the Long Ago . . . One touch of 
that, and the burden of Today, grown great in the 
years of struggle, slips from your shoulders as lightly 
as the wild -rose petal drops upon the bosom of the 
stream and floats away to the music of the riflSes. 

Only a strong man can go back over the Old Road 
to the beginning-point — facing the memories that 
throng the path — meeting the surging emotions that 
sweep away all our carefully-laid defenses — braving 
the grim spectre that puts the white seal of age upon 
our heads. 

Once more, in the cool of the late twilight, we'll 
sit with chin in hand on grandfather's front steps and 



watch the stars come out . . . and hear the 
loon calling weirdly across the water . . . and 
catch the perfume of the lilacs and narcissus from 
the garden . . . and gather at grandmother's 
knee to feel her soft fingers in our curls and hear 
her bedtime story. Half asleep, but ever reluctant, 
we will trudge stumblingly to the little room with 
its deep feather bed, and get into our red-flannel 
nightie. Down on our knees, with our face in the 
soft edges of the mattress and tiny hands uplifted, 
we will say our prayers, and end them in the same 
old way: "God bless father and mother, and grand- 
father and grandmother . . . and eve-ery-body 
. . . else in . . . the . . . world . . 
amen ..." and feel those strong mother-arms 
lifting our sleepy form into the downy depths! 

Never until now have we known the reality of 
the boy-days, or paused to receive their hallowed 
touch. 

Grandfather and grandmother, and the garden, 
and the river, and the song of the robin in the apple- 
tree, and all the myriad experiences of the boy-time, 
are glorified now as never before. In the halcyon 
Then they were but incidents of the day; in the 
mellowed Now we learn the truth of them, and 
catch their wondrous meaning. 

The flower blossoms are gleaming as colorful and 
fragrant today as they did in the Long Ago. The 



bird-songs are as tuneful now as they were then. 
The sun Is shining just as golden and as genial 
this moment as it did when we sat on the beams 
of the mill-race and felt on our faces the spray of 
tumbling waters sun-warmed in the air. 

We need only open our hearts and let the sun- 
shine in! 

And Youth and Age, blended and rejoicing, will 
go hand in hand along the path of life to its far 
goal bestowing upon us all the freshness of the dew- 
damp morning, all the vigor of the strenuous noon, 
and all the peace and calm assurance of the star-lit 
night. 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

018 484 037 64 



